


Production

by Wrathofscribbles



Series: Shipping words [8]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 19:11:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19409608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: It's not supposed to be a big production, just a quiet affair, and it is.But it's also so much more.





	Production

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MathClassWarfare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MathClassWarfare/gifts).



> **Big bold reminder that Final Fantasy XV and all of its content is property of Square Enix.** I'm just rolling around in the sandpit they created.

It's not supposed to be a big production, not according to Prompto, and really it's _not_. It doesn't match the week-long opulent chaos of an Insomnian ball, but...

But they've spent months restoring Cape Caem into something safely habitable, standing sure and steady despite the ravages of time, present where the Regalia and so many mementos are not. They've planned this so far ahead that Aranea, Cindy, _and_ Ravus are all in attendance despite their busy schedules. They've thought of everything from the lack of vegetables on his own plate to Ignis making the cake to an album of old photos propped open on the fireplace. And there, beside Ravus, an empty chair draped in white with a vase of Sylleblossoms on its seat, Umbra munching on treats by its feet. There, too, stretched out in a patch of sunlight and ruby horn glowing, Carbuncle. The little Astral looks up at him as if feeling the weight of his stare and the moment their eyes meet his phone chimes. But the usual greeting is missing when he checks, and his phone outright _trumpets_ a birthday tune at him instead, a cue his nearest and dearest take to start _singing_ and Noctis - doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"You didn't seriously think we'd forget, did you?" Prompto asks in the wee hours of the morning when they escape to the roof for some privacy.

"It's been ten years -"

"Longest fucking years of my life. C'mere," and he does, like a moth to flame, powerless to resist and Prompto's as warm and solid and strong as ever.

"I missed you," he whispers.

"You're home," Prompto replies, and kisses him as if to prove it.

He is, though, isn't he? He's really, truly, _home._


End file.
